by Tarah Scott
“Thank ye, lass.” He half rose, picked up the jug, and smiled as he filled the waiting goblets. But as Julianna edged past him to take her seat, his eyes dropped to her backside.
The bloody bastard, Cailean thought with a surge of anger that flexed his jaw. So much for putting aside earthly desires when he took his priestly vows.
“The wine is even better than usual,” Lennox said.
Father Andrew nodded. “The grapes were particularly sweet last year.”
Julianna picked up the heavy, silver platter piled high with sliced chicken and meat, and extended it toward Cailean. As he took it from her, his fingers brushed hers. Her gaze locked with his for an instant, she smiled, then settled back on her chair. Cailean filled his plate with some of the meat, then passed it to Lennox and took a sip of wine. Lennox was right. It was very good, but not as tasty as Barbara’s violet petal wine.
Cailean set down his goblet, then said to the priest, “Do ye know what happened to Lady Elizabeth?”
Surprise flickered in his eyes again. He stared at Cailean for a beat, then said, “Patrick’s men used her as no woman should be used.” He shook his head and crossed himself. “But I believe she died of a broken heart.”
“Died of a broken heart?” Cailean repeated. “As in a woman who gave birth to a bastard child?”
Father Andrew blinked. “What?”
Dread slithered through Cailean’s innards and he couldn’t escape the idea that he knew.
“There were rumors Lady Elizabeth had a child,” Father Andrew said slowly.
“But you dinnae believe it?”
He shrugged. “No one came forth claiming to have her child.”
“Why would they?” Cailean said. “As a bastard, the child would be shunned.”
The priest shook his head. “Patrick was the first man to have Lady Elizabeth. The child could just as easily have been his. But that was no matter. The marriage contract had been signed.”
Cailean nodded. “Which meant any child she bore would carry Patrick’s name.”
“If there was a child.” Father Andrew took a long sip of wine, then wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
“But you do no’ believe there was a child?” Cailean pressed.
“As I said, there was never any proof.”
“Did you look for one?”
The priest studied him. “What is your interest in this?”
“My family told me Lady Elizabeth gave birth to a child.”
He seemed to consider that. “Even so, why do ye care?”
“Wouldn’t that child be Patrick’s rightful heir?” From the corner of his eye, Cailean glimpsed the narrowing of Lennox’s eyes.
“Do ye think to swing the power from Alexander?” The priest grunted. “He willnae give up control.”
Cailean shook his head. “Nae. I don’t care about suchlike.”
“Then why pursue this?”
Cailean shrugged. “Curiosity.”
“Curiosity can get a man killed.”
“That sounds like a threat, Father.”
“Cailean.” Beneath the table, Julianna stomped on his toe. “Father Andrew wouldnae threaten a mouse.”
“That sword he wears says otherwise.”
“Even a priest must sometimes defend the weak.” Father Andrew took another drink. “Let me speak plainly. Curiosity is a fine thing. But if Alexander thinks you are trying to unseat him, he may no’ care that you are simply curious. Even you must admit that your interest is strange.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
“Untangling what happened might be more trouble than it’s worth,” Cailean finally said. Especially when he’d be gone soon.
“One thing we know for certain is that Patrick sinned grievously when he gave his betrothed to his men.”
Father Andrew’s tone said he disapproved, but Cailean wasn’t buying. He recalled Lady Morgana playing the part of Lady Elizabeth dying in Valdar’s arms. Cailean cast a sideways glance at Julianna. Lady Morgana was dark, Julianna fair, but both women were petite—compared to him, at any rate. He couldn’t imagine Julianna being passed around by men like—Cailean looked at Father Andrew—like Father Andrew.
*
Father Andrew insisted on giving them a tour of the gardens and orchard, which took the better part of the afternoon. He then led them into the monastery’s main dining area where they were ushered to the long table at the head of the room, an area as vast as any castle’s great hall. Cailean’s stomach rumbled in response to the delicious smells wafting from the trenchers and platters in the middle of the table. Father Andrew sat to Julianna’s left and to his left Father Gabriel sat at the head of the table. Lennox sat to Gabriel’s left and a dozen other priests and monks joined them. Cailean liked Father Gabriel, a pious man in his late sixties with the vigor of a man in his forties. Unlike Father Andrew, he didn’t carry a sword, but his broad shoulders and muscled arms said he’d grasp a weapon—any sort—when necessary.
Were all medieval Scottish abbeys run by warrior monks?
The priests clasped their hands together in front of them and bowed their heads as Father Gabriel began to pray over the meal set out before them. “Heavenly Father…”
Cailean studied the men. Other than Andrew and Gabriel, he’d only met two other priests. He’d half feared one of them would look like Val’s other companion, Lord Bains. Cailean slid his gaze over to Father Andrew. The resemblance between him and Rathais was uncanny. Andrew must be a relative of Rathais—or maybe Rathiais was the priest reincarnate. Cailean laughed silently. Why not? These days he would believe anything.
An elbow to his ribs yanked him from his reverie. He jerked his attention onto Julianna, who had slanted her head to stare at him. She flicked a glance at his hands in an obvious command to pray. He’d been right that first night he met her. She was trouble.
She furrowed her brow in an effort to emphasize the telepathic command for him to pray with them. Cailean couldn’t resist, and tweaked a lock of hair that had slipped free of her hairnet. She flicked his finger away with an audible snap. She winced and Cailean stared. The woman had actually flicked him with a finger.
“In Jesus’ name,” Father Gabriel said—and she squeezed her eyes shut, hands clasped demurely in front of her— “amen.”
Everyone looked about, including Julianna, who appeared as innocent as a newborn babe. She picked up a piece of bread from the plate in front of her and tore off a hunk. Cailean watched as she blithely ignored him while she filled her plate. He wanted to laugh. Heaven help him if she ever decided to lie to him. She finally looked at him and lifted a brow as if to ask why are you staring at me? without a hint that she’d been acting like a schoolgirl while her priest droned on in prayer. Cailean grinned and a corner of her mouth twitched before she caught it. His attention snagged on her full mouth, and he experienced a sudden urge to kiss her. He envisioned leaning toward her until his lips brushed hers. What would she taste like? She shifted, and he whipped his gaze to hers. Her cheeks colored. Bloody hell, she’d read his thoughts.
Cailean turned his attention to the food, more roasted meat, pan-fried herring, cold salmon slices, spicy, pickled mushrooms, and steaming mounds of butter-sautéed onions and garlic, and began filling his plate.
Julianna cast a sideways glance at him and a pang of regret surfaced. What a shame he was returning home. He would like to get to know this woman. If he were to meet someone like her in the twenty-first century… Cailean shook off the thought.
Who was he fooling?
No one like Julianna Mackay existed in the twenty-first century.
Two hours later, the room had quieted substantially. At least half the priests had sought their beds, Father Gabriel included, but Father Andrew was drinking like a fish—as were several of the other priests—yet he seemed unfazed. It would probably take two bottles of whisky to lay the big man flat on his back.
“Tell me, Father,” Cailean sat back, watching him, “where d
id you learn to use that sword?”
A lad filled the priest’s mug with ale. “Och, lad, that was another life.” Father Andrew chuckled. “A long ago one.”
“I can imagine.” Cailean glanced across the hall to where Lennox sat playing chess with one of the monks. Julianna hovered at her brother’s elbow, seemingly pleased at Lennox’s skill. Cailean was pleased they’d left him alone with Father Andrew. He returned his attention to the priest. “You speak of another life, Father. I wager that life had to do with steel?”
“I am no’ a young man.” The monk’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “I spent fifteen years selling my sword before I took my vows.”
Cailean’s interest quickened. “A mercenary?”
The big man chuckled again. “So some would say, aye. In truth, there are many names for men such as I was back then.” He leaned back and stretched his arms over his head, cracking his knuckles. “I would answer to any of them.”
“That bad?”
“That good, I would say.” Father Andrew grinned. “It was a life of great adventure. Danger at every turn, enemies as well as friends ready to kill you for gain, but also…” His smile turned reminiscent. “I had dreams of the Crusades of old, thought to visit the Holy Land and see the endless sand deserts and the burning sun, the markets of every imaginable good, from exotic spices to silks to sultry-eyed female slaves.
“But alas…” He slapped a hand on the table, rattling the goblets, knives and spoons. “I ended up cutting throats for a wealthy Spanish merchant. But in my spare time, when there was any… Och, laddie, those were the days.”
“I’m sure,” Cailean said.
The warrior monk leaned toward him, lowering his voice. “Have you e’er had a Spanish woman? Their blood is hotter than—”
“I’m a man who loves cold, wet lands, Father,” Cailean told him. “So you sold your sword and then found God?”
“That was the way of it, aye.” Father Andrew’s expression sobered. “One of my closest friends fell to an enemy blade. The bastards slit his throat ear to ear. But he still had his last breath in him when I found him and I dropped to my knees and prayed. Me, a man who’d ne’er believed in anything beyond the need to fill my belly and dip my wick in a comely wench. So there I was, on my knees, begging God to save my friend, a man I loved like a brother, and vowing to take up the cross and spread His word if only he’d hear my prayers and bring my friend back to health.”
“And your friend’s life was spared?” Cailean murmured.
The big man grabbed the wine jug, topped off the goblets. “My friend recovered. No’ overnight, but he lived. I’ve been a holy man e’er since.”
“What of your friend now?” Cailean asked.
“He lives still.” The monk chuckled. “Better than I do, in fact. He married one of those hot-blooded Spanish lassies, an olive grove heiress. He stepped in when her father died and now—” he grinned “—almost every olive eaten in those distant lands sends a coin into his purse.”
“He was lucky, indeed.”
“Aye. And you…” He studied Cailean. “I understand you are good with a blade.”
Cailean shrugged. “I grew up with a sword in hand.”
“Who did ye apprentice with?”
“No one in particular,” Cailean said, and cursed when Julianna rejoined them.
She slipped into her chair, her gaze locked on him, her eyes sharp. Had she been listening from across the room? She’d told him her ears were good, but were they that good?
“I am surprised I never heard of ye.” Father Andrew rubbed his chin. “Ye dinnae compete in the tourneys?”
Cailean drank his ale and shook his head. “No interest.”
Julianna’s gaze sharpened on him. Bloody hell, he’d told her he was in Heatheredge for the games.
Father Andrew took another gulp of wine, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am not proud of the life I lived, but I dinnae regret it. Like all men, I had to eat, and a good sword arm can always find a home.” He leaned into the corner of his chair. Candlelight glinted off something in the folds of his robe. One of the necklaces he wore, Cailean realized. His gaze snagged on the charm and he froze in reaching for his goblet.
Was the charm the same talon that Val Ross wore? Not just Val, but Bains—and Rathais.
Cailean picked up his mug, then plunked it back down when he saw his hand tremble. What the bloody hell did this mean? He opened his mouth to ask Andrew about the talon, then thought better of it. Until he knew what he was dealing with, it was best no one suspect he was anything but a passing visitor to Heatheredge.
“Are ye all right, lad?”
Cailean realized the priest was talking to him. “Aye, I was just wondering about the men who employed ye.”
He shrugged. “Ah, well, they were men like any other, various lords and knights. No one of note.” He flicked a bread crumb from the table. “Why do ye ask? Do ye want to sell your sword?”
“Nae.” Cailean shook his head. “I only wondered if ye had worked for a Lord Rathais.”
The priest and Julianna stared at him.
His heart began to beat faster. “What have I said wrong?”
Julianna touched his arm. “Cailean, Rathais is Father Andrew’s surname.”
Shock sped through him. He should have known.
Cailean laughed. “Ye cannae be the same Rathais I speak of.”
“I know of no other Rathais but my family.” The big man frowned. “You can only mean us.”
His voice was genial, but Cailean detected the suspicion Father Andrew was clearly trying to mask. None of this matters, he reminded himself. He would be home in a day or two. Unless someone killed him before then.
“Perhaps it was your father I heard about?”
“My father is a farmer.” The monk was still frowning. “Who told ye of this Lord Rathais, and what did he say?”
“A friend, Robert Mackay.” There had to be a thousand Robert Mackays. “I heard Lord Rathais was a fair man. But he is in the Lowlands. Is it possible ye have kin there?”
“Did ye fight in the Lowlands, Father?” Julianna sat forward. “The Borders are always astir.”
“The Borders?” The priest looked at her as if only just realizing she had returned. Cailean wanted to kiss her. She’d discerned his discomfiture and caught Father Andrew off guard by jumping into the conversation.
Father Andrew’s face cleared and he smiled at her. “Nae, lass. I have never been past Edinburgh.” His eyes shifted to Cailean. “Still, ‘tis a mighty queer that the man ye heard of was a man with my family name.”
Cailean nodded. “It is,” he said, and meant it.
“I shall have to find out who the man is.” Father Andrew grinned again but, this time, the levity didn’t reach his eyes. “If I have a wealthy relative, he might want to donate a few coins to a priest who shares his blood.”
“Mayhap this is a sign from God that ye are supposed to find this relative,” Julianna suggested.
“God works in mysterious ways,” the priest said, but Cailean would have bet a month’s wages that God had nothing to do with this situation.
The devil?
Aye, he would wager a month’s wages on the devil.
*
Julianna gazed out the window of the cell Father Andrew had given her for the night. Crisp spring air chilled her face and she breathed deep. The window overlooked the expansive gardens in the center of the abbey grounds. She hadn’t visited in over two years and had forgotten how beautiful the monastery was. The priests had expanded the apple orchard and she was sure she saw more pear trees than had been here the last time she’d visited. This early in the year, the raised beds were largely filled with rich, black soil, few seedlings having broken the earth. But the little enclaves here and there with arbors and benches, fishponds and fountains… It was all so serene.
She felt fortunate that Lennox decided against returning home tonight. The bracken-stuffed beds in th
e cells weren’t as comfortable as her bracken and feather stuffed bed at home, but she found pleasure in being alone with her thoughts. Where had Father Andrew put Cailean? Unlike most of the priests at Reay Abbey, he had been a real man before he became a priest. She suspected he understood the sins of the flesh better than most. Something told her he also wouldn’t call such urges sinful, leastways not when speaking in private. He would understand why her thoughts kept veering back to Cailean.
She remembered their dinner and the way he had looked at her. If Father Andrew had noticed, he would house them as far apart as possible. She laughed. He might well have sensed her attraction to Cailean. He was beautiful to look upon and she couldn’t deny a strong desire to find out what all that muscled flesh felt like beneath her fingers. She flushed warm at the memory of her body pressed against his when they’d walked out of Strone Hall. Walked. Sweet Jesu, but it took bollocks to attempt such a daring escape. The man had guts. He was the best swordsman she’d ever seen, even better than Lennox, which she hadn’t thought possible.
She recalled Cailean’s expression when he’d told her to stay hidden in the trees. Tenderness rippled through her. He’d been concerned—not as Sir Lawren, who believed heart and soul in the superiority of men over women, but as a man who…the tenderness tightened into longing. He was a man who cared. She released a sigh and leaned her arms on the window ledge. She’d met Cailean but a few days ago and yet felt as if she’d known him her entire life. He was unlike any man she’d ever known, which fiercely piqued her curiosity.
A large figure came into view across the garden. A man walked in the shadows, alongside the wall. Julianna straightened. She would know that figure anywhere. Why was Cailean skulking about the gardens? And skulking he was, for he hugged the wall in a clear attempt to stay in the shadows. She watched until he reached the stone path to his right. There, he turned and passed beneath a short stone bridge that connected a low tower with a small chapel.
Where was he going?